I want to make you move
by mirai3k
Summary: There's a rhythm in it, a push, a pull, where Gwaine pushes till he can't, till he gets pulled in, maybe even a little bit over his head.


title: I want to make you move (because you're standing still)  
>charactersrelationships: gwaine/lancelot; background merlin/arthur; past unrequited!gwaine/merlin and sort of past!lancelot/gwen  
>words: ~7,500<br>rating: pg-13  
>warnings: violence, language, minor character deaths; spoilers till the end of series 3<br>notes:  
>- cleaned up fill for the prompt the lj merlin kinkmeme:<em> GwaineLancelot - "I like him already_  
>- many thanks to imnotjkr lj for looking it over. all remaining errors are mine.<p>

x

"Lance-a-lot?" Gwaine asks, the first words out of his mouth when they get a moment alone. _"Really?"_

Lancelot chuckles, says, "I get that a lot." His eyes crinkle at the corners and Gwaine can't help but catalogue that somewhere in the back of his mind.

And it's quick from there, the attraction, the kind that has Gwaine fighting hard to keep the grin off his face.

x

Gwaine has met many, many men in his life, something of an occupational hazard what with being a nomadic tavern connoisseur, but he can always place the warriors. They come in different shapes and different faces but they always have this pride, this great sense of self like a slumbering beast that will threaten to wake if you get under their skin just right. Gwaine _lives _to get under their skin. It's why he has a grand old time with Arthur despite his royal pratliness, and Merlin's knack for the same could explain how he and Gwaine always got on so well.

And then there is Lancelot, with something in his quietness that makes Gwaine wonder how hard he would have to squint to see what this one's all about. He has this vague, unsettling feeling that he could slice and dice this man's ego all he likes but he will not find it, that sleeping beast. Still, he can swear that there is one, deep down in there. There has to be; there always is.

x

They spar together the morning after they are knighted-for real this time, and then every morning after Arthur finishes the drills. They spar until it becomes their thing, a way to learn the other person, their angles, momentum, blind spots and all. Arthur catches them at it once, encourages it and expresses surprise that a lot of the others don't do the same.

Merlin comes by another day with a platter of fruits and bread and cheese, says that the prince had them sent for his strapping young men, then clarifies, "Nah, just stolen goods from the kitchens. I just wanted to watch but didn't want to come empty-handed. Arthur says you lot put on quite a show."

Lancelot smiles, appreciative, sweat beading at his brow, while Gwaine pulls the strap of the waterskin from Merlin's shoulder.

He claps Merlin on the shoulder with a "Thanks, love." When he drains and returns it, he adds, "Just so you know, this isn't a tourney."

"I know," Merlin beams and takes a seat on the grass. He rambles on about how when they finish they could have something of a picnic and how he loves that they are all here to stay and how long he's waited and how he told them so and-the blades clash suddenly, the noise drowning him out. "Oh alright then! I'll get on to watching, I suppose."

He lasts all of five minutes before he stands up and announces that he's leaving because he can't stand to watch either one of them lose the mock-fight. "It's like that time Arthur had to fight Uther."

He sounds so traumatized at the memory of it that Gwaine wishes he had been there to witness it. However- _"Hey,"_ Gwaine calls out. "Who're you calling Uther?"

"Not the point I was trying to make. We're still having lunch together, yeah? It's all ready so come find me when you finish. You know where."

"With Arthur then?" Gwaine croons, because Merlin can't seem to get away from his job even when the job gives him the day off.

"_Oh, shut up_."

"Polish that sword well, Merlin," Lancelot quips, and it has got to be the first time Gwaine's heard something like that out of him. It's nothing, and yet, coming from Lancelot's mouth, it sounds positively _obscene_.

"Not you too," Merlin wails, running back to his darling prince while they laugh and laugh and laugh.

x

What he can't get over is the rhythm in it. It's like nothing else he's been a part of before. There's a push and pull, where Gwaine pushes till he can't, till he gets pulled in, maybe even a little bit over his head.

Opposite Lancelot, he loses track of time, loses hours and hours until once or twice he has found the day bleeding into night around them while they stood face to face in the woods or the training grounds or the clearing behind the west wall.

(And if it's slowly becoming an excuse for something else, something other than making himself stronger, better able to map his opponent, well if everyone and their mother can have their dirty little secrets, he can't see why he isn't allowed his.)

x

"You fight like you have something to prove," Lancelot says to him one afternoon, a quiet observation.

"Every man has something to prove." Gwaine can't help but wonder what this man's something may be.

"That may be true, but you're-" And Lancelot never finishes the sentence he means to. Gwaine can tell from the way he rises from their seat by the training ground and shakes his head. "You're a worthy opponent," he says.

Lancelot holds out his hand, an offered handshake, and Gwaine doesn't know what possesses him when he takes it and presses a kiss to the back of it, then pulls away laughing. "You're not bad yourself."

It's quite possibly the first time he has seen Lancelot look shades away from his usual composure. "Was that supposed to be an insult?" he asks lightly, confusion deep in the lines of his frown.

Gwaine maybe wants to pinch his cheek a bit, say, _No, sweetheart. It means that I don't know what to make of you._

No, that's not quite it. He wants to say, _Yeah, maybe it was, and what of it?_ because he wants to see how far he can go, push, push, push till Lancelot can't take anymore. Thing is that it's _Lancelot_, stupid bloody noble Lancelot, solid and steady Sir Lancelot, and Gwaine _can't_ because he's not quite that cruel.

x

When they get their third spectator, it's not Merlin or Arthur this time but Guinevere.

He catches Lancelot following her with his eyes when she leaves, and thinks, _bloody fucking hell_, because he should have known. It's obvious like a lightning strike, loud in his head like a thunderclap, and he wonders how he never saw it before. He should have known that there was always a catch. Always another bloody unrequited pining idiot at the end of his own unrequited bloody pining. Just his own idiotic luck then.

"So that's your girl." He's well aware of that _thing_ in his voice, the one he can't seem to scrub out no matter how hard he tries. It tastes like disappointment only it's a hell of a lot more bitter. It has no right to be and he knows as much.

"Gwen?" Lancelot turns to him and he looks so goddamned forlorn even when he smiles that Gwaine wishes he never asked, wishes he could stop doing it to himself Every. Single. Time. "I would say she once was but even that would be a lie."

It should make him feel better really. He's seen Arthur make doe eyes at her and he remembers her high praises of His Highness, their present regent and future king who would somehow save them all from the evils of this world, or so she believed. The point was not so much that she and Lancelot had apparently had a thing. Rather, here was where it had all fit and it left Gwaine with this empty, gnawing feeling inside.

(He doesn't know what's wrong with him. This was _nothing_. Just silly curiousity, something like intrigue. He has overcome worse, _so much worse_.)

He's likely over-dramatizing it in his head. Still, it doesn't help the light-headedness and how it leaves him feeling a little bit ill, just enough that he has to steady himself with a hand on the side of the stables. "She's pretty," he says, sounding meek to his own ears.

"She's beautiful," and Lancelot shakes his head in that way again, as if doing just that will shift his thoughts on their own.

(_So that's your something then. That dormant beast that will shake you to your core._)

"Yeah," says Gwaine, looking everywhere but at him. "Yeah."

x

They spar as they do every morning or early afternoon but now it's just the brunt of metal against the brunt of metal.

Gwaine feels heavy with the weight of his armour, and beneath that, the weight of his own bones. He puts up a fight for the sake of putting up a fight. Lancelot is still all discipline, all smooth motions and clean parries, and if he notices it too, the shift between them, he says nothing of it.

It's no longer a dance, just obligation, just a pattern they play at because that's what it has become.

Arthur calls him on it at the drills. Considering Gwaine's form is complete and utter shite these days, he would have needed to be blind not to.

He's spared the public humiliation when Arthur just asks gruffly to speak with him later. Gwaine really, really does not want to but he nods and grumbles his "Yes, Sire."

x

"What the hell has gotten into you?"

At least there is that small blessing that Arthur has never been one for small talk. Gwaine can't decide whether to cringe or be glad.

"I hate to inflate your ego should it burst but you're aware that you're one of my very best knights. And that-whatever that was..."

After he has spent enough time bopping his head from side to side to every word, a lot like the days he'd wait for his ma to _please, please, please _get to the end of her lecture, Gwaine interjects with, "Yes, all right. I get it. We can't have that and it won't happen again."

"Gwaine!" Arthur whacks him on the side of the head. "You're not listening."

Gwaine blinks then and snaps, "_What?_ And pretty sure you missed a 'Sir' in there somewhere, thanks."

There's a smile creeping at the edge of Arthur's mouth, and maybe Merlin's right when he says Arthur secretly enjoys the insubordination. It comes out as a sigh and the hand that had previously connected with Gwaine's head settles upon his shoulder. "Listen, _Sir Gwaine_" he says with emphasis. "You've got that look." Gwaine is about to protest that there is no such thing as _that look_ but Arthur beats him to it. "I know that look. Just..." he makes an abstract gesture with his hand. "Go and talk to him. Or something."

He's pretty sure he's sputtering by the time Arthur turns away.

(And then summons the nerve to think, _oh yes because that worked out so well last time._)

x

It's almost funny, thinks Gwaine, because even when everything seems like it has changed, nothing really has and nothing ever does. It's been months since they first returned to Camelot and Gwaine can hardly believe it, can hardly imagine a time when he hadn't been here. It's foreign, this attachment, especially for someone who has never let himself hope for a place to call his home.

He and Lancelot still train together and eat together and wear the other's company like an old coat. Sometimes, Arthur will join them in their hours off. Other times, it will be Merlin. And then there are those gems where they're graced with both of them together in all of their bickering married glory.

They make it all bearable, the worst parts of being here, because if there's one person in Camelot whom Gwaine will never cease to adore, it's Merlin, and if there's one person who will never cease to be entertaining, it has to be their unwittingly hilarious future king. He tells the best stories when he's had a bit to drink (though in truth they are the absolute worst stories and really, that's all the difference between the best and the worst of them). It's always infinitely more amusing with Merlin cutting him off and correcting him with overlapping heads and tails of his own versions.

Gwaine and Lancelot have a running drinking game of sorts in which they have to drain their goblet every time Arthur hisses a '_Shut up, Merlin' _in the midst of these stories.

Today they're running high on their counts because it's one of those stories Arthur really does not want told and Merlin can't help but spill, a lot like the wine he's got all over Arthur's lap.

It's a great, great thing that Gwaine's damned good at holding his drink. The inebriated version of Lancelot does not come anywhere near the hilarity of the great Prince Arthur, but it is quite the sight to behold. He looks immensely fascinated by every word out of everyone's mouth, listens raptly and gets almost irritable when they digress.

When it gets late enough and they're all sufficiently pissed, Arthur announces to their party of four, "It seems as if our good Sir Lancelot cannot stand up after his fourth goblet of wine without falling flat on his face." And then, very pointedly to Gwaine, "Help him up and out, will you _Sir_ Gwaine?"

(It was actually his twelfth goblet. Gwaine knows because he'd downed just as much. He also hates Arthur bloody Pendragon a little bit right now because the man thinks he knows exactly what he's doing when he most decidedly does not.)

"Not necessary," Lancelot raises a finger up at Arthur. With an arm slung around Merlin shoulders, he implores, "Would you please, please finish that story about the unicorn?"

Merlin giggles and says, "Oh Arthur should do it. It's just _too_ good!" because _that's_ the kind of drunk he is. It's rather endearing really but Arthur's about to belt out another _Shut up, Merlin!_ and Gwaine only has so much time to cover the top of Lancelot's goblet with a hand.

"All right, Princess." He heaves Lancelot up by the shoulder and slings the man's arm around his shoulders, placing his own at the small of Lancelot's back. "Time to call it a night." He waves at Merlin and Arthur with his free hand and feels incredibly grateful for the twelve goblets of wine in his system because he would have had no chance in hell at pulling this off otherwise.

Once they're alone, Lancelot insists that he's fine to make it back on his own and Gwaine makes no move to protest. There is a brief, odd glimpse of a moment when Gwaine looks over his shoulder from the steps and sees Lancelot rooted to his spot at the top of the landing, averting his eyes quickly before turning his back. And this time it's Gwaine who could very well remain rooted to his spot and either pine like a tree or slam a knuckle into a wall but no, no, no. That's not his thing. His thing is to know his odds and know when to fight and know when to quit. His thing is to get himself into bed and sleep it off.

And maybe tomorrow he'll be able to fight once again like he has something to prove. It's been quite a while and lately, he's been growing afraid that he might just forget.

x

It's a foggy day when they return from patrol along Mercia's border and Gwaine finds himself lagging behind. It's all dampness and chill and silence in the air and sometimes Gwaine really, really hates being a knight.

He's looking forward to a bath but like every other day of this past week and a half, he knows he'll find himself knee-deep in mead at the tavern and Merlin will come and haul him off and fuss over him and put him to bed. Once, he used to do it just for that. Once, it used to be enough even if Merlin would find him the morning after and nag about how Arthur would not be footing the bill and Arthur would expect more from a warrior and Arthur this and Arthur that. Now, when Merlin does it, Gwaine just laughs. He ruffles his hair and wants to say, _be less in love_, and this is how he knows he is over _that_ one at least.

He's lost in his thoughts when the dusk falls around him in what seems like seconds and manages to separate him from the others in the thickening fog and murky light. It separates him by quite a distance as well because when he calls out for Leon, who's heading this insane mission, he gets nothing back.

And _of course_ there are bandits and of course they choose this moment to come at him when he's knackered to the point where breathing's a damned effort.

One, then two, and that he can take care of, dodging a blow and pulling a sword here and there because they're always thrown off to see a man use both his hands. Then two more, then four, and he thinks absently, _A little help here?_ Of course, there's no answer and he's thrown on his back and nearly sliced open when Lancelot of all people comes out of thin air to his bloody rescue. Gwaine would complain but not dying seems to be the priority right now (and if Lancelot's all for being the answer to his prayers then yeah, he thinks he'll take it).

He's on his feet again with Lancelot behind him. They fight back to back, shoulders pressed together and swords in sync without looking and it's effortless; it's rather hard for it to be anything but given the time they've spent learning the way the other moves.

Gwaine knows he's done a whole lot of fighting in his time, but _this_, there's a thrill in it, a pulse and a rhythm and it hits him just how much he has _really bloody missed it. _

When they finish, breathing heavy, they make their way through the woods, bumping shoulders as Lancelot scolds him as gently as only he ever can.

"That was quite the damsel in distress moment back there," and it's one part wry and nine parts fond.

Gwaine shoves him into a nearby tree, laughing, and maybe it's just in the way his blood is singing with the aftermath of battle, the adrenaline running high, so high that Gwaine half thinks that he could toss them both to the ground right now. He could drag his teeth over the links of mail and ruck up the layers of metal and fabric with his mouth and his hands, push down their breeches just as fast. He could push and push and _pushpushpush_ and it might get him somewhere now (maybe _only_ now) because Lancelot's blood is singing with it too. He can see it, can hear and feel the beat of it loud in the air, so palpable it raises the hairs on his arms.

And it's like this that Sir Leon finds them, with a panicked, "Are you all right?"

Gwaine lets his hand drop from the bark of the oak, that spot burning below his fingertips just beside Lancelot's head. They push off and walk, without a word, all the way back.

x

The weeks that follow drag by until they become months.

They are never on the same patrol and there is never any time alone, not even to spar, not anymore, and, perhaps, it is just as well.

Sometimes, he begins to wonder, begins to question. It's easier now. Far too easy to pass it off as his mind playing games with him, made worse by the dim lighting of that evening in the woods, that godforsaken _look_ and the hitch in a breath and-Gwaine does not think about it.

(Except-he thinks about it all the time.)

It's entirely useless, he's sure. Always, eventually, his head comes to wrap itself around the moment where his feet felt like they'd hit solid ground again. The moment when it was all over and Lancelot shuffled a few paces ahead and Gwaine lingered behind, right back to where he began, back to nowhere really.

x

There has been talk from near Alined's land, something about a woman and a child and enemies of Camelot amassing in outlying villages and neighbouring kingdoms. It doesn't take long to guess.

Camelot sends out two groups of men the next morning.

From the ramparts, Gwaine watches as Guinevere embraces her brother, as Lancelot shakes Percival's hand and squeezes his shoulder.

(There's a nagging thought that he doesn't like to address. It all speaks too much of finality, too much of _perhaps this is it, the last one_-it's always there in the back of their heads, part of the job, and Gwaine knows and understands that but it doesn't make any of it any easier.)

Arthur had listed the names of those who would be going with Leon eastwards and those who would go west with Arthur. And then there were those who were not going at all and Gwaine had been ready to argue it out, incredulous, when it was just him Arthur and Lancelot in the room. The prince had looked Lancelot in the eye and said gravely, "I'll need you for later," and then, turned to Gwaine, "both of you. This is for us to map her ground. The worst has yet to come."

Gwaine had kept his jaw clenched tight and Lancelot had nodded, agreed for the both of them though he had no right.

Later, he'd said, "I know how much you want to go but he's right. Our time will come."

And Gwaine had thought, _that's not what he said,_ but in a roundabout way, he now supposes it was.

x

Their time would come and until then they would wait.

In the mean time, he swallows, watches the horse that carries Arthur, then another, carrying Merlin behind him.

The waiting, he finds, is the hardest part.

x

With the grounds mostly empty now, they return to sparring every morning at dawn. It's different this time, silent save for the clang of metal. It's rigorous and very nearly _religious_.

And for the first time in quite a while, Gwaine sees the weapon before him and forgets the man. It consumes him to the point where he has even forgotten the taverns, the misery and the mead.

Every move is measured, cold, calculated. His muscles burn with fatigue by noon but he keeps his eyes open, squinting against the mid-day sun because he knows that he is only as much as he makes of himself, can go only as far as he pushes. And so he pushes himself in ways and to points he'd never known to be humanly possible.

They go without meals, often without water and without sleep. And later, without light.

It becomes routine while Arthur's away, fighting into the dark of night. That one's originally Lancelot's idea. Conditioning, he calls it, says that once Arthur gets back, they should all should do evening drills to grow accustomed to low levels of light. Gwaine would maybe spare a moment to be impressed if there was a moment to spare. Instead, he uses every moment he has to sharpen his blades, his body, his mind. It is no longer just a welcome distraction but a state of being, and, at least for now, it feels _right_.

x

Their time does come and it comes in spades.

Their eyes meet in the armoury and Gwaine can feel himself shudder, cursing his body for it all the while. He has always thrived in battle, no matter the odds, never once been a coward, and yet, something about this time makes his stomach sink. It's not a question of being prepared because he has been ready for weeks, all the mornings and nights he has given to practice, to battle, all of them to amount to this. In some ways, he has been ready long before the day Arthur told him to stay put, perhaps even before the day he was first knighted on that cold stone floor.

Arthur is bellowing out one of his _For the love of Camelot_s again and Gwaine believes in it, every breath and syllable and word of it, but it feels like there's so much more at stake, more than a man and his kingdom and justice to the land.

Gwaine collects his sword from a squire, distracted, when Lancelot claps him on the shoulder, thumb cold against the skin of his neck, and murmurs, "See you soon."

And maybe once, Gwaine would have chuckled, pulled him into a hug and released him with, _Don't do anything I wouldn't do_, as he has done to countless men before battle, and to which Lancelot would say, _That doesn't leave much_. They would laugh and go off being the grand old white knights that they are and come back in one piece, come back together, and maybe laugh about it some more.

Only now, Gwaine is sort of left spinning in his skin because he wants so much of everything in this moment and knows no way of going about it. He has never bothered with formalities, always known to take what he's needed because that was survival and damn the consequences. It would be easy, just inches to cross, to lean over and whisper because they still have some time before they ride out, so much time and never enough time. If nothing else, it would be enough time to just _say_ it now, get it out of his lungs and all the spaces inside of him where it has been gnawing at him for far too long.

"You look like a ghost."

It's Merlin, and Gwaine wants to smile at the sight of him, cold and exhausted and yet, glowing golden in the torchlight like a firefly.

"Pity we're not all gorgeous little things like you." He manages a wink and a laugh that's not all there. It's met with a roll of Merlin's eyes and badly veiled concern underneath. "Come to my funeral, yeah?"

"Shut _up_. There will be no funerals." Merlin punches his arm and pulls away with a hiss when his knuckles bounce off the armour. Gwaine laughs and Merlin spins him around to inspect the rest of his armour, tightening clasps and tucking loose fabric into place.

There's a brief moment where Gwaine wishes he were still in love with this bright, beautiful twig of a man. Even though it had been anything but easy, it seems easier in retrospect. Merlin has always been all comfort and kindness, clumsy ease and affection, and even now, Gwaine feels a sudden rush of adoration for all that he is and how he gives and gives and gives.

When Merlin's done with him, Gwaine watches him go to Arthur, catches the way their knuckles brush as weapons transfer hands, something quiet and steady in their eyes. It's the kind of look that latches on tight and doesn't let go, _cannot_ let go, and Gwaine turns away because it's not his to witness.

x

Their time comes and it dirties the air, stains the soil and the grass and the waters crimson.

Uther's condition has allowed Camelot's enemies to proliferate. Still, they seem to dangle from Morgana's fingers like marionettes, and it's trap after trap, all a game of hide and seek. Morgana hides well and Arthur knows when to retreat.

Except, there's a day in between that doesn't go too well.

Gwaine fights with both eyes open, both his hands and both his feet, the only way he's ever known, but even he knows well enough that he is no match for magic.

He wakes up to the bluish haze of dusk, seeing stars that aren't quite there yet and in a pool of blood by his ear. His hair sticks to his face and he vaguely thinks to grimace but the thought that comes is that it requires far too much work to be worth it, closely followed by a string of mental expletives, and pain and pain and _pain_.

And then, it's as if he's merely blinked and someone is holding him, cradling his head and screaming words he can't quite make sense of. It's _Merlin_ and Gwaine's never been more glad to see him but there's the distinct smell of singed flesh and he thinks, _just let it end already_, and then, _oh god no, what a pathetic way to go_.

To Merlin, he mumbles, "Thanks, mate," and he knows there's something bigger that's happened here. Something that he will need words for later when he can piece it together but, for now, there's a vague memory of the ambush resurfacing, of men on black horses and another knight of Camelot who was beside him (and they had always fought so well together-what went wrong? He can't even begin to imagine what might have gone wrong, can't imagine, _can't imagine..._)

"Where's-?"

-but Merlin hushes him with a hand to his mouth, and a "Shut up, _shut up_, you're losing blood!" And there must be some truth to it because Gwaine passes out within seconds.

x

He wakes up in Merlin's room and can overhear Gaius and Merlin talking outside, mumbling about herbs and salves and it's a moment so reminiscent of another so long ago that he would laugh if his skull didn't feel like it would split right in two.

Merlin knocks once before entering and he wears a strange look on his face. It doesn't sit right with Gwaine at all.

"Merlin," he starts, because suddenly it hits him. He has no idea how long he's been back, how long he's been asleep, or what might have happened in the mean time. "Where is-"

"Lancelot's fine, Gwaine."

And Gwaine breathes out loud, relieved, and not caring enough in the moment that it shows, that Merlin or anyone could so easily guess. The look still doesn't leave Merlin's face. "You passed out," he says, sitting gingerly by Gwaine's side. "Do you remember anything before that?"

"You mean that thing you did?" And Gwaine waggles his fingers, an imitation so awful it's not really an imitation at all. "What of it?"

"So..." He trails off, then tries to start again. "You don't have anything to say?"

Gwaine can't help but laugh. It makes his head hurt like hell but it's almost worth it for the look on Merlin's face. "Other than, wow, Arthur must _really_ like having you around, what with the whole _off with his head_ thing still being in effect and all-no, not much to add." And he hopes that Merlin can get that it's _him_ he's talking to, that it doesn't matter when it's him and that Camelot could go up in flames before Merlin stops being infinitely precious to him.

"It's not like that," Merlin sighs, and it's as if he's looking off into a place that's distant, somewhere Gwaine can't quite follow his gaze. "It's changing, slowly, but it is. Uther-"

"Is still the king at the end of it," Gwaine finishes, a wary reminder, "so I'd tread carefully, yeah?" He watches as Merlin swallows, nods. "So Arthur really doesn't mind?" Gwaine whistles low. Their crown prince must be more smitten than Gwaine had previously given him credit for. Secretly, he is glad for that.

"It was a bit rough at first but I think he's realized that it _is_ rather handy."

"Kinky," Gwaine remarks.

He anticipates Merlin's annoyed swat at his leg half a second before it comes. The flush is making its way up Merlin's neckerchief and yes, there are still days where Gwaine has to fight the impulse to tuck him in his pocket and keep him safe from the world. Even if, good lord, the man is a bloody _sorcerer_.

"So," Merlin says, looking all too relieved now. "What's with you and Lancelot? They say you're going to be the knights of legend, or at least once you get your acts together."

And now it is Gwaine's turn to shoot him a glare. "Why would anything be going on and, more importantly, who is _they_?"

"Well it's mostly just me," and Merlin sounds rather proud, "but, y'know, Arthur laughs about it too."

"Ah, our future king and his gossip queen."

"On occasion, Elyan and Percival chime in. Leon's too proper though, says we shouldn't be disrespectful and comment on your personal affairs." He finishes in a brilliant impersonation of Leon's more sombre tones.

"Well you lot are out of your-" but he stops there and, for some unspeakable reason, feels himself deflate. The dread from mere minutes ago isn't that far from his consciousness. The thought that Lancelot might not have made it back-Gwaine doesn't think he could wrap his head around it. On top of all that, he's never been able to lie to Merlin so he figures there's no use in starting now. "Let's just say there are very likely some lovely dames out there who are perfectly befitting of Sir Lancelot's affections. It would be a shame to ruin their chances."

Merlin frowns and he seems to cut right through all the feigned levity in Gwaine's words, cut it right down to the bit that's not quite been said. "That's not fair, Gwaine. You don't really know that."

"-Nor do I want to find out. Which is why us good sports quit while we're ahead."

"No," Merlin shakes his head, grave." That's not like you. He cares, you know. He cares a hell of a lot."

"Let it go, Merlin." It's supposed to be stern but _Merlin _and _stern _never went well together. Instead, it comes out hollow and worn, and Gwaine just wishes they could talk about something-_anything_-else.

"He was in love with Gwen."

Gwaine winces, thinks, _Please. I don't want to ask you twice._

"But that's changed. They moved on. Things change and people change. Feelings change. You _know_ that."

Gwaine can't look him in the eye so he looks away and forces a smile. "We're knights of Camelot, dear Merlin. We have battles to fight, tournaments to win, folks to charm and mead to drink, et cetera, et cetera."

"Hey," and Merlin brings his voice down low and tugs at Gwaine's sleeve, brushes a thumb against his wrist and gets Gwaine to look at him again. There's something both intimate and apologetic in his touch.

"Tell me the truth. Was this my fault at all?" He's worrying his lip and Gwaine wants to say, _What are you on about?_ He wants to feign ignorance all over again but maybe this, now, is another sign that he's moved past that, well past that. They both know how obvious it had been, how careless Gwaine had become, and just how awkward it had gotten with Gwaine tripping over his feet and Merlin feeling like hell because he couldn't do a thing about it.

"Listen, love," Gwaine says softly, giving his hand a squeeze before he pulls his fingers away. "I know you're fond of taking on the weight of the world but please understand that _that_ was never your fault."

_Though you were really something_, he thinks, fondly now, _and I'm glad that you're happy. You of all people have never deserved less._

x

It occurs to Gwaine the following morning that he really needs to stop waking up in strange places. There's a pale glow from the curtains in these chambers and it takes him a moment to gather that they're not his own and nowhere near the infirmary either.

"Well then," he breathes, holding his head. He recognizes the cut of the helmet on the table with a jolt, wonders about the mead and then remembers, no, he hasn't been to the tavern in weeks, if not longer.

There's a knock on the door that he doesn't know how to answer; regardless, the door swings inwards.

"If you're wondering why you're here," Lancelot says, "it's because Merlin and Gaius have their hands full. Thought I'd help keep an eye on you."

_How very noble of you,_ Gwaine wants to say.

"I thought you were dead," is what tumbles out of his mouth instead because that's true too and somehow feels more important. It's faint but his sleep-addled brain remembers being angry about something not too long ago, being utterly terrified, and maybe that was it. It's a dull ache now, something slow and diffuse spreading from his head to his chest, then all through his body.

"I'm sorry I left you," Lancelot says.

_But you're here now,_ thinks Gwaine, _much like you've been before. And still, I keep on missing you._

"It's fine. I managed-"

"I went to get help. I thought you were dying," Lancelot cuts him off. His voice is so _strange_, so distraught and shaken, and it's written all over his face, so transparent in this moment. He shakes his head, tries to chuckle. "So we're even, I take it."

"Come _here_," says Gwaine, practically _snarls_, and Lancelot meets his eyes at last. "Oi, don't make me get up. I hurt all over. Get over here so I can punch you in the face."

And Gwaine really, truly wants to punch him in the face. It doesn't help that Lancelot actually complies and walks on to take a seat at the edge of the bed.

Gwaine pulls himself up, sitting so that they're closer now, face to face, and really, he's tired, so tired of this madness. "And the worst part is," he says, apropos of nothing, "that you still have no idea how infuriating you are."

"Gwaine-"

"You never say what you're thinking," and Gwaine tilts his head to the side, makes a study of this paradox of a man who is so full of everything, brimming with fight, with feeling, and Gwaine does not for the life of him know how he keeps it all inside. "Sometimes," he says, barely a murmur, "I wish you would."

Lancelot doesn't answer, not right away, but leans in close. It's more a brush of a the lips than a kiss, barely even there. He pulls away before Gwaine can properly blink or _breathe_, and sounds like he's hundreds of years old when he speaks:

"I'm saying it now."

x

When they say that Arthur Pendragon is worth dying for, perhaps it is in moments like these that it shows, moments when he unashamedly sheds tears for those who have died in his name.

Gwaine wishes Merlin had been right and that there had been no funerals, but there is one, a large, solemn affair, because otherwise they would be here for months. They hold it in the courtyard to commemorate the loss of Sir Gareth and Sir Lamorak, Sir Evan and Sir Ethan, and nearly three dozen other knights.

Each name sends a shiver through him because even if they all saw it coming, no one ever really does.

Gwaine has fought alongside men before, killed and watched men die before, but this is new for him. There was always a sort of safety in loneliness. He had never lost so many of the men he had come to respect, come to care for like _family_, or as close as anything could come to it.

Throughout the service, all Gwaine can think of is how much he wants to ride out and drown himself in the strongest drink he can find, make himself forget not just that this happened but that it will again and again. His thoughts are cut short when he registers Lancelot at his side, eyes closed and face still as stone and there's a pang of something godawful at the sight. They should be accustomed to this, should go in _expecting_ this, and on the surface, they do, they always do, but when it's the people you know, when it's someone-

Gwaine can't think about it too long, and yet, can't think of anything else when he bumps his knuckles against Lancelot's wrist, moves to brush his thumb over a calloused palm because he is here and he is _alive_ and, for now, that needs to be enough.

x

They make it to Gwaine's chambers, without thinking, without speaking. Once inside, Gwaine is about to say something incredibly stupid, he's certain of it, but it's Lancelot who turns towards him now.

He looks the way Gwaine feels, as if he's being held up by his bones alone. There isn't all that much to say and all Gwaine wants is what he has in front of him, who he has in front of him, because even if everything always ends, it is the in-between that counts. And maybe this is what makes him close that gap, the few steps that feel like miles and he would have walked them long before if he had been a braver man.

It's strange, thinks Gwaine. Once, he had wanted so much to break this man open, slice his way in. Now, he just wants to be let in, wants to soften the lines on that face, revel in that secret smile, that quiet laugh, and feel at home in the lines of this body.

It's a rough kiss, so unlike the first, all colliding teeth and chapped lips, far too much cloth and metal between them and hands that don't know where to go in their attempt to go everywhere. And it's as if he's making up now for every push Gwaine once sent his way because Lancelot is pulling at him now. Drawing and tugging and pulling, at the leather of their gauntlets, at clasps and metal and fabric and laces. He pulls at skin and hair and at the breath that fills Gwaine's lungs like the sun pulls the earth pulls the moon until Gwaine is empty of it, filling with Lancelot's breath instead, drinking deep until he can't, until he's spent, forehead hitting a spot square above Lancelot's stupid, noble, heart.

x

There are many conversations that they have not had, some that they will never have, and others that they will, in time.

There are pasts and presents and futures, where they come from and what they leave behind and what they will one day become. Just as there are men and women who have made them who they are, who have loved them and hurt them and whom they have loved in turn. Some of these names come up every now and then until they become names of friends and strangers, numbers and memories and nothing more.

Occasionally, they talk about the man they serve, the prince whom everyone seems smitten with for some bizarre reason they will never understand.

(They don't speak of how they would die for him, readily, and then do it over again.)

And if they are different, so different, Gwaine can only laugh because in spite of the differences, where it counts, they are the same. Lancelot still claims to marvel at it, the way two people running in completely opposite directions seemed to come upon each other like this.

There is nobility of birth and blood and heart and soul. Somewhere, they got lost in the midst of it, found themselves halfway on the path to an end to come. It has become much easier to look it in the face and Gwaine's just glad that they found each other before all that.

(He thinks that he would have hated to see it alone.)

x

"I once told you," says Lancelot, "that you fought like you had something to prove."

They sit side by side on the grass with their elbows and knees knocking together. "You never said what it was."

"Maybe," Gwaine says around a yawn, "I was making it up. Maybe it wasn't anything."

It's late and Gwaine's falling asleep and making little sense but he'll try to keep his eyes open a little longer, just a little longer.

They stretch out, breathe in, and fall upon the grass on their backs under a sky that has each and every one of their names, every destiny, carved into it. And it's all forgotten with a tilt of the head, with a look, and all the words that hang in between.

Maybe it was this.

x


End file.
